How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  “You there. Hold.” Holy Balls of Odin. The dreaded voice of The Ax froze her in place.

  She took a deep breath and shrunk deep into the cowl. Shaking, she prayed to the deaf Christian God as The Ax closed in on her.

  This may be my last moment on earth.

  “Tell me, old hag, is she with child?” He waited, fresh onions on his breath.

  She pinched the hood tightly around her features and shook her head.

  “You best be right.” He threw a halfpenny across the floor.

  Was this a test? No serf would let such a thing go unnoticed. Dropping to hands and knees, she picked the coin out of the thatching, clutched it with white knuckles, and rose. Then she quickly tucked her young hands within the cloak’s long sleeves.

  His boots inched closer and with it, his voice grew louder. “If I find she is with child, you die. Do you understand?”

  Bastard.

  Nodding, she braced for another kick. Instead, his huge feet swiveled, his spurs tore at the rushes, and he was gone.

  Breath whooshed out, terror momentarily lessened, and she shuffled past one last set of guards. Just beyond, a courtyard swarmed with people. Once out of the keep, she fell on her knees in the middle of the busy square, unable to take another step. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Her stomach grumbled at the smell of roasted boar.

  “Oils, apples, iron …” Vendors sang their wares in cacophony from a maze of booths. She needed to get out, but in what direction?

  A young lad with concerned eyes approached, and handed her an apple. “Are you ill?”

  She took a bite of blessed apple and showed him her coin. “Get me out of this keep and this can be yours.”

  A smile flashed, she was reminded of her monk, and she quickly brushed away a tear. Her lover was lost to her forever. The only thing left was revenge. And she would have it. Nothing else mattered. Hate would be her strength.

  As he led her around winding narrow streets of the village, she pondered her next move. They stopped at an intersection where both horse and human excrement pooled.

  “Tell, me. Are you a good thief?” She jumped over the puddle with his help.

  “Why do you ask?” Pausing, he turned and pursed his lips.

  Fay hoped she’d judged the lad correctly. “If you find me a quiver and bow, and take me to a secluded wood, I’ll see to it we both eat well.”

  “If you feed me, I’m yours for life.” A grin lit up his face and he pointed to an arch in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the town. “Go through and walk on. I’ll catch up shortly.”

  She nodded, put a hand on his, and said with earnest, “Say nothing about me to anyone, or we’ll both loose our heads.”

  From there, she walked down the narrow road between the stone houses. How could she appear normal when any moment someone might recognize her and drag her back into hell? And what of her Aunt Agatha? The gatekeeper watched her closely but said nothing, then she dared hope she was free. In the distance were trees. There she could find something to eat.

  She couldn’t wait to share with her monk all she had accomplished. Her throat tightened when she again had to remind herself that he was lost to her forever. How long before this pain would go away?

  By the time her lad caught up, the castle turrets had disappeared behind a blanket of fall colors, and she was reminded that winter was not far off.

  He gave her a cheery wave as he entered into the shade. In his hands he held a longbow with missing string and three misshapen arrows. “You’ve no idea how well people guard their weapons.”

  “I’m afraid I do. This will not work without a string.” She shook her head, missing her own cherished weapons.

  But his face beamed. He lifted his tunic and untied the flaxen rope holding up his braies. “I’m no idiot. Will this work?”

  She gave him an encouraging smile, but she hadn’t wrapped her own weapon for many seasons. “It may take a bit of time. Can you find some beeswax or something sticky to help me bind it?”

  “Tree pitch?”

  She brightened. “That’ll do. But we need to get deeper into the forest before we do anything more.”

  “I know just the place.” He took her by the hand and they walked deeper into the trees until she could barely put one foot in front of the other.

  Finally, he stopped at a rune stone near a cave with the remnants of a stone ring for a hearth. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he glanced up at the rustling in the orange covered branches. “Can you shoot squirrels?”

  She sat, rubbed her sore feet, and tried to sound hopeful. “That would be lovely but it might be hours before I can aim well and shoot. What I would not give for a slice of brown bread.”

  With a bit of mischief in his eyes, he winked, and pulled a loaf from a linen bag hung over his shoulder. “A good servant knows the needs of his lady.”

  Her mouth watered, she gobbled down the piece he handed her, and then had an awful thought. “You could’ve lost a hand. Although I am grateful, you must not steal for me again.”

  Much heartened by some sustenance, she worked the belt into a proper bowstring. All the while she imagined sending an arrow into the face of The Ax, which made the work go faster.

  That should’ve helped her to forget her monk and how they’d made love so sweetly. How his calloused fingers had touched her and brought her to heaven. What good would come of this lamenting? Any joy had left with him. She was doomed to walk this earth sad and alone. No mother, father, siblings, or lover. So be it. Far easier to ponder how she would kill off The Ax. She spat onto the ground and shouted at God in a spiteful prayer. Liar.

  As quickly as it was thought, she let it go. I apologize, uh, God Father, m’lord. After I kill The Ax, I pray that you kill me quickly, so I can join Brother Nicodemus in your heaven. He said you are a just God. If I’ve had so much bad luck in this life, it might be safe to assume I’ll have better in the next?”

  After she finished her string, she put a knot in the end and grabbed the bow out of the nearby stream. The loop went over the top of the arc, the wood creaked, but the wet wood bent without breaking.

  She smiled. It would do.

  Next, she needed arrows. The bone tips of the old misshapen spears were surprisingly sharp and the feathers still useful. After rolling a wet shaft upon a rock until straight, she placed it into the bow and aimed at a tree in the distance. It went far to the left. She frowned, tried the next, and it sunk into the wood at the root of the tree. She whooped in glee.

  This might take some time, but soon she would eat, then regain her strength. As if summoned by her good mood, a white tail flicked just beyond where she stood. A small doe flicked its ears and small black eyes stared. Without another thought, she aimed, shot, and the deer dropped to the ground.

  By the time the lad had returned, she’d already gutted its belly, and her mouth salivated at the meal they would soon eat.

  He jumped up and down, shouting, “Holy Jesus Christmas day!”

  “Shush. We’re poachers. Thieves. To be found out is to die.” A strong vine sufficed as a rope around the animal’s hind legs. She threw the end over a tree limb, and lifted it up off the ground.

  “Aye, but we’ll not die of hunger.” He nudged her with his elbow until she just had to return his happy grin.

  Then his face dropped at the sight of her blistered hands. “Oh, nay. I’m a very useless manservant. Hand me your blade. I’ll finish this and get at the meat.”

  In that moment, he reminded her of Aiden, and she smiled sadly. She’d never see her orphans again. With her new faith, she prayed that God would see to their wellbeing. For once she’d killed The Ax, her life would be over and she’d never have a chance to apprentice them all.

  Stomach growling, she started a small fire, hoping it would not give them away, and they ate. When she could not take another bite of venison, she asked, “What is this place called? That castle?”

  The lad looked up, rub
bed his greasy mouth, and shook his head slowly back and forth. “How is it that you don’t know?”

  “I am a kidnapped queen, and was brought here against my will on a boat.” She raised her eyebrows.

  Meat spewed forth at his guffaw. “And I’m the Prince of Wales.”

  She chuckled at the game. “You are? How peculiar. Together we will make our quest and have revenge on an evil laird. What is your name, good sir?”

  Standing, he bowed. “George. Like the dragon-slayer.”

  “Well, Sir George the-dragon-slayer, how well guarded are these woods?” She moved closer to the fire and added a few twigs to make it flame.

  Watching her, his face suddenly became all-serious. “The king’s men guard the castles. The Welsh lords, what’s left of them, are in hiding. You picked the best time to become a poacher. Could you teach me that?” He pointed to the bow.

  “It may take some time …”

  “But I’m your servant for life, am I not?”

  If only he knew how short hers was to be. Perhaps it would be well to leave him with a skill that would someday earn him a living. “If we have the time, I will. Now. Are there any you trust in the village?”

  “A few.”

  “Do you think you can trade our stag for warmer clothes and less perishable food? While there, guard your words well, Sir George. The penalty for poaching is high.”

  He nodded, readied himself, and then rushed back down the road.

  Long after he was gone, she lay her head against the earth, hoping to dream of revenge, but instead, her monk appeared, all bloodied and broken.

  Back in Man, Nicholas woke when the hens clucked and the cocks crowed. A fire in the center hearth crackled and warmed the room, but his blood was still cold. Six weeks. He moaned, picked up a small dagger, and made what he vowed would be the last notch in his pallet. By the bloody palms of Christ, today would be different. He pushed up with arms that had regained some strength, sat, and adjusted the wood slats on either side of his right leg.

  “Patience.” Already at work, the old woman turned and clucked her tongue while pounding spicy herbs in her pestle. Scraggly gray hair fell into a knowing eye under her cap.

  “I need to get off this accursed island.” He stood, limped a few steps, and grimaced as the pain shot up the side of his leg. As always, mornings were the worst.

  “Impossible. No ships have come since that Scot declared Man pox-ridden. You’re stuck here, along with the rest, until some physician dare come from the mainland and deem the whole thing a terrible mistake.” She grabbed several tufts of dried moss, sniffed, and added it to her mixture.

  Frustrated, he grabbed for a pottery mug hanging on a peg, balanced on his good leg, and ladled a cup of thick broth from a kettle that bubbled over the smoky fire.

  After taking a deep gulp, he said, “I damn well cannot swim home to England.”

  Her mouth turned down, deep wrinkles abundant. “Do as you will. I see no chains.”

  Knowing he owed his life to the old nurse, guilt pounded at his already burdened conscience. He hopped over and patted her hand. “Apologies. I’m just overly anxious for the welfare of the lady of the Isle.”

  She shook her head and tsk-tsked. “How many times have I told you? There’s no hope. The full moon has come and gone. She’s either dead or wed by now.”

  “I know, I know. But none-the-less I’ve vowed to save her. Tell me, did my men leave any words with you? Anything?” He dared hope as she paused from her making of medicines, tapped a finger to her lips, and skewed her face.

  “Hmm. They may have left some scribbles. I’d forgotten all about it until just this very moment. ’Tis a problem of the aged.” Still mumbling about her years, she shuffled over to an old wooden trunk and placed one jar after another upon the floor. Then she beamed and passed him a roll of parchment.

  He read.

  My Dearest Friend Nicholas,

  I am weighted down with sadness, for I fear we shall never meet again in this life. I must leave before word gets out of the pox on Man. Your lie was a blessing and a curse. It will save your life, should you survive, for Huntercombe will surely never return.

  If you are reading this, then I praise God that you have recovered and I know you will forgive us for our departure. I’m going to find Lady Fay. Otherwise, I fear for my life, for I have failed in my duty to your grandsire, as did you.

  I’ve explained the whole of our ruse to Sir Ferguson. I believe that is where you may find your only ally. Go to him. I would say, fare thee well, but that is not possible. Instead, I will say as the Normans, until we meet again.

  Yours,

  Sir Robert Eaton

  Ferguson as friend? Last time they’d parted, they’d threatened each other’s early demise. Regardless, Nicholas grabbed for his crutch, his cloak, and ducked under the lintel of the tiny cottage. “I must go.”

  “You cannot. You’ll never make it.” The old woman tugged back at his arm.

  He wobbled, held both her boney hands in his, and smiled without mirth. “I cannot die. There’s too much pleasure for the devil to have at my expense. But worry not. I’ll see to it you are well rewarded for my care.”

  “Pooh. Even if you had it, what good would gold buy? More mutton and cheese? At least let me walk with you.” She grabbed a wool shawl from a peg, placed it over her shoulders, and led them out of the village.

  Their breath sent cold smoke upon the ether. He shivered and said, “My path takes me to the castle where I cannot guarantee your safety. You must stop at the edge of the village. Sir Ferguson and I did not part on the best of terms.”

  “Aye, so the minstrels tell. I am not that infirmed of mind.”

  “What do they sing?” As they wandered past thatch-covered huts, he wished by all the demons that tortured him, that his leg could bear his full weight.

  “That you are no monk. That you are bastard and grandson to the powerful Bruce of Annandale. Your sister is married to the wealthy Sir D’Agostine of No-Man’s-Land. That you fought with valor with the English against the Welsh. And that you are not a knight.” She eyed him shrewdly.

  He grimaced at the last truth, again laden with guilt. “Aye. I’m ordered to do the most unchivalrous deeds for the Bruce clan. It would not benefit my grandsire to knight me with a code of honor.”

  And his last act would be the most dishonorable yet. For in stealing Fay, he would sin against the sacrament of marriage. The devil of his fevered dreams laughed hysterically.

  Forcing conversation to a lighter nature, Nicholas walked with her to where the forest started.

  She left him with tears and a fierce hug. “I would have you come back to visit, lad, when all is well.”

  He nodded and agreed to return, even though he knew it nigh unto impossible. The next two miles could’ve been hundreds. He sat often, his body drenched in sweat. By nightfall, the drawbridge came into view. Gathering up the last of his strength, he hobbled past the sheep, past the barking dog that guarded them, and to the moat’s edge.

  “Ho, there!”

  Screeching sea birds mocked his greeting, circling overhead. They landed on the turrets on either side of the drawbridge, peering down at him, as if archers with beaks.

  “Damnation, Ferguson, are you deaf or are you ignoring me?” Nicholas leaned upon his crutch, wondering where he would sleep, if none came out to greet him.

  At length, muted voices sounded behind the walls, the drawbridge gears squealed their discontent, and the wood lowered to the ground with a clunk. Using his crutch and a walking stick, Nicholas thumped across like an ancient.

  Sir Sean Ferguson met him halfway, stopped, and put his hands upon his hips. “You look like dung.”

  Nicholas shrugged, wanting nothing more than to sit for an eternity. “Are you going to kill me? If so, do it now and end my suffering. God’s blood, I’m tired.”

  “I see no need. Look at you. You no longer present a threat.” Ferguson lent him an ar
m and helped him across.

  Embarrassed, but too exhausted to object, Nicholas took the offer, limped over the churning sea, and into the castle grounds.

  At the stable cave, Loki barked, tail wagging, and came out to greet him. Nicholas bent over to pet his friend on the head. It seemed like years, not months, since he’d last made this place his humble home. He missed it and he missed Fay with an intensity that ached all over.

  “I’m afraid I cannot make it to the top.” He gazed toward the stone stairwell with dread.

  “Then take your rest with the beasts. Aiden? Where are you, lad?” Ferguson turned about.

  The man who must be stable master came out from one of the stalls holding a shovel and pointed at the boy hiding behind a palfrey.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Go upstairs and have Haddr prepare a plate for our guest.”

  Stopping in front of Nicholas, Aiden gave an awkward bow. “Welcome back, Sir Bruce. You’ll help us get our lady back?”

  “Aye. But I am no Sir. Call me Nicholas-the-Nothing, if you must.” He eased down upon a pile of hay, stretched out his throbbing leg, and for a moment, lamented his circumstances.

  To make matters worse, Ferguson looked upon him with pity, and nodded at the splint. “Did it break?”

  “Why are you being so damned amicable?” he asked, shamed by the gaze.

  Loki, who’d been sitting quietly, whimpered and nudged a wet nose under his arse. Nicholas patted his head. “It’s all right, old friend.”

  Ferguson watched the interaction, sighed deeply, and shoved a clean bundle of hay. He sat down and said, “After Huntercombe left with Fay, your man Eaton came to see me and explained everything.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him? Help fetch her back?” Nicholas wondered what, if any, chivalry lay in that cowardly soul.

  Deep creases that had not been there previously lined the knight’s forehead, and his eyes sunk into dark circles. “I could not. I pay allegiance to the King of Scotland. He sent word I was to serve Huntercombe. But after he left, I did provide your men with weapons, sustenance, and a sturdy boat. Her old aunt left, as well.”